


Turan's daughter

by Hypatia_66



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Death Threats, Gen, Riddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-11 02:31:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13514856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatia_66/pseuds/Hypatia_66
Summary: To keep his head, and gain the formula, Illya has to answer three riddles or hope for rescue





	Turan's daughter

**Turan’s daughter**

 

Waverly put the file on the revolve and sent it round to Napoleon who picked it up gingerly. The old man watched his face as he read, noting each change of expression and the gradual lengthening of his face.

“You’re sending _Illya_ to beard this lady in her den? Can I ask, why him and not, say, me, sir?”

“She’s Russian, or rather, half-Russian, half-Chinese. A very dangerous woman, not someone who would respond to your style of … engagement. Mr Kuryakin is made of different, cooler, metal.”

Napoleon absorbed that without a blink. “She’s also mad, by the sound of it.”

“She may be mad, but she has the formula for a poison that could be used by anyone wishing to hold whole countries to ransom. We have to get it from her before she gives it away to …”

“ _Gives_ it away?”

“To anyone who can answer the three questions she asks.  So far, no-one has, including at least one Thrush agent, and as they have all been murdered - beheaded - after their failure, no-one knows what the questions are.”

“Someone must know.”

“Mr Kuryakin will know soon. He was the only man I could think of who might have the cultural references needed for such a task.”

“And if he doesn’t answer correctly?”

“He will need to be rescued – that’s your job. I want you to be there on the ground before Mr Kuryakin arrives.”

oo000oo

It was a very sharp glance from under a frowning brow as he looked up from the file. Waverly waited for a moment, then said, “Now, as you see, her name is unknown, so far. She is known only by a patronymic. Her father developed the poison that we want to get hold of and destroy. It is believed she keeps the formula with her at all times.”

“Can’t we just go in and take it, instead of this extraordinary question and answer ritual? Why do you think _I_ can succeed where so many have failed? ... Sir.” The formality was distinctly belated.

“Better to try peacefully rather than risk so many lives. You speak her own language. We don’t know what the questions are, and of course they may change each time. But you are European - Russian, like her – so there may be something in your background that will enable you to work out the clues to answer them.”

“Wasn’t everyone else European? She seems to have murdered all of them – in a particularly bloodthirsty way. And anyway, isn’t she partly oriental?”

“She will not murder you, however, and we _must_ retrieve that formula.” It was noticeable that Waverly hadn’t answered his questions and the blue eyes blazed briefly before he veiled them.

“And if I don’t – _can’t_ answer the questions correctly?”

“There will be back-up.”

Waverly seemed very confident about his future, but his subordinate was far from convinced himself. Nevertheless, he had his orders: he would obey, however reluctantly.

“Where is Mr Solo?” he asked, stopping at the door. “Will he be involved?”

“He will be there before you are; he will be your back-up.”

The door closed behind him, and Waverly sat down heavily. Mr Kuryakin’s questions had been very much to the point, and he had known they weren’t being answered. To have such a man’s loyalty was a gift he feared he might be throwing away. The thought of that young head … no, Alexander, it wouldn’t happen, Solo would be there to prevent it.

oo000oo

Getting in was easy enough. It was rather like a nunnery; he rang a bell, a window was opened in the door, and a woman demanded his business. He stated his request and was admitted. The ritual part-stripping was disconcerting, and not much like normal nunnery behaviour, and nor was the amount of weaponry on display. He was led to and left at a door and then the women withdrew, their draperies brushing the floor. He touched the gong as he had been instructed. It continued to resonate with a high singing tone and harmonics that raised gooseflesh on his bare skin. He waited, willing his heartbeat to slow. The door opened soundlessly and he stepped into the dark of a great room, draped with silk hangings the colour of blood.

A spotlight shone from above. It turned the gold in his hair to a halo, and gleamed on his shoulders, but left his face and the rest of his body dark. He stood still and waited, intrigued, despite himself, by the theatricality of it all.

“Come forward,” said a voice. “Kneel at my feet.”

A softer light from behind her caught the planes of his cheek and jaw, his broad brow, the serious, unsmiling set of his mouth, the glitter of a gold chain in the blond hair on his chest.

“You know the law.”

“I know the law.”

“Answer the three questions correctly and you live. Fail to answer and you die. Are you ready?”

“I am ready.”

oo000oo

The first question showed him what this test was to be – riddles – questions requiring not knowledge, but answers that would have to come from within, and not just from self-knowledge, but from an understanding of a narcissistic psychopath’s mind.

“What is born each night and dies at dawn?”

She had spoken to him in Russian, recognising his nationality from his name. He wondered who the others had been and what languages she had used with them, and whether they had understood what she wanted.

He took a breath and pondered the riddle, sinking his thoughts deep inside him, waiting for inspiration or memories from a past life to rise to the surface. The moon? Stars? A summer breeze? No, nothing so obvious. Something necessary to life, something he always needed…

“Hope,” he said.

She seemed to sigh, and bowed her head. There was a rustle among the drapes as of people whispering.

Fierce dark eyes lifted to his cool blue ones. He met her look calmly and without fear. She spoke again.

“What is warm and shimmers red like flame, and yet is not fire?”

That was easy… Wasn’t it? He thought of a red squirrel’s tail flickering in the woods of Kiev; of turning leaves in autumn – or fall as he should call it now. No, not those. Dyed silk? A blush? Once more he sank into his thoughts… a blush… the red drapes…

“Blood,” he said firmly.

She looked down at him, kneeling at her feet and saw again how cold his eyes were. He spoke now, before she could present the third riddle.

“Knyaginya – Princess – We have a bargain.”

“A bargain? You are vulgar.”

“No, not vulgar. This is an ancient rite – if I win, I shall keep my life and you shall also give me that casket by your hand.”

“So confident? Be silent! Answer the third question correctly, then you may make your request.” She intoned her final question, “What is colder than ice and yet burns?”

Illya looked up at her face – her slanting eyes like dark pools in a skin like porcelain; blood red lips; in her embroidered golden robe, she was like an icon in a very unorthodox church. A frigid maiden with longing in her gaze.

That was no riddle – that was cheating.

“Turan’s daughter,” he said softly, and she started up with a cry.

oo000oo

Napoleon and his men were positioned at strategic corners and on rooftops round about, waiting. Something was happening inside. There were voices, agitated cries, flickering lights as the drapes at the windows billowed.

oo000oo

“I have answered correctly,” he said. “Now it is my turn.”

“You are in my power. You have no right…”

“Oh, but I have. You promised me my request. The casket, if you please.”

“You may have your life. You must also have me.”

His eyes never wavered, though this was an unforeseen complication. There were useful clichés, however, for this absurdity.

“I do not look so high for a bride, Princess,” he said.

“Nor I so low for a husband,” she retorted. “Nevertheless, I am she with whom you will share your life.”

“No, Princess. I claim the casket only, as my reward for answering your riddles.”

“Do you reject me?”

“No – a man must be proud to be offered such a prize – but so high and puissant a lady can be none of mine.” He wondered from what depths he had dredged all this high-flown nonsense – it must have been in some book he had read in childhood.

“What is the casket to you?”

As if she didn’t know.

“The prize I seek is the treasure you keep so close, and by which I shall remember you,” he replied untruthfully.

“I don’t wish to be only remembered. I want _you_.”

“I am not free, Princess.”

Now angry, she called out loudly to her acolytes.

It was almost a relief to be surrounded by armed women, and have this ludicrous conversation terminated.

“My life, Princess? My freedom?” he said.

“I said nothing about your freedom. You are mine, and what I say will be obeyed.”

They seized him and dragged him away, out of the blood-red room, away from the ice-cold Princess, out into the courtyard and across to another wing.

oo000oo

Napoleon’s men used grappling irons to get up to the roof, and spread out to watch. They were in time to see Illya being marched across the courtyard, but then lost sight of him. They signalled to Napoleon, who set in train his plan.

“Looks like they’ve taken him into the wing over there,” they said when he joined them.

“What about the woman?”

“No sign of her, so far – though there must be access through the building, so maybe we wouldn’t see her.”

“Stay here, I’m going to find him.”

Napoleon slid down the rope they had secured to the chimney, and landed in a dark corner of the open courtyard, near a door. It was unlocked, an invitation to enter. He slipped inside and found himself in a short passage. There was low-level lighting, enough to make his way quietly without knocking into anything or anyone.

At the end of the passage, he could go either left or right. He chose the right-hand corridor and observed several doors, in each of was a barred window. Well, that would be useful, assuming Illya was in one of them. But he wasn’t. Napoleon went further, to the end. Nothing. And there was nothing in the corridor he had originally rejected, except another turning which led to the wing he needed to avoid.

He returned to the door into the courtyard and looked around, only now spotting the narrow external stair to a colonnaded upper corridor. Darting carefully between shadows, he made it to the stairs unobserved and ran up them. Arriving at the top, he heard voices and ducked down. They were quiet, and speaking what sounded like Chinese. He heard the swish of silk on the floor and saw a flash of gold as the Princess passed by above him. He followed the light they carried in the darkness of the unlit walkway, until they paused at a door. He saw her gesture imperiously to her women to station themselves beside the door and she herself then went in.

There were two of them; they stood quietly two paces in front of the door and with their backs to it, so they remained unaware of the dark shadow flitting towards them along the wall. The gas capsule he tossed between them was effective within seconds, and he now approached the door.

oo000oo

Illya looked up when the door opened and, seeing the little gold figure standing there, looked down again to hide his relief. She was alone, and she was carrying the casket.

She approached him, her robes glittering in the candlelight, her eyes glowing. She placed the casket on the table beside the bed, and bent to take his hands to pull him up.

Her head barely reached his shoulder, and he repressed a shudder as her hands caressed the bare skin of his back, but couldn’t suppress a yelp when she nipped his upper arm with sharp teeth. Now she was scratching his back and biting his shoulder and collar bone – a little too close to his neck. It was like having an angry cat in his arms. He held her away, his hands crushing her silks.

Napoleon stepping silently in at this auspicious moment, stopped in wonderment at the sight. His partner was outlined in candlelight, his skin and hair reflecting the gold of the woman’s garments as he held her struggling figure away from him. Then as he moved towards them, Illya saw him and gestured towards the casket on the table. Napoleon tucked it into the breast of his camouflage jacket, and said, “You look like you could do with some help, old friend,” and taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he proceeded to gag the lady, who had begun to scream.

“Let’s have that rope. She’ll be OK here for a while. No-one will come and disturb her in here. They’ll know she had guards outside.”

“I’d better bring the other ladies in. They can keep each other company.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve seen my clothes anywhere?”

“Sorry, no. You look very lovely as you are, if I may say so.”

“Kind of you to say so,” he said drily, “I doubt if Mr Waverly would approve.”

“I can think of several people who _would_.”

They left the three women on the bed, tied up and gagged, and now examined the casket. It was Illya who found the mechanism that opened it, to reveal inside a sealed metal phial, which presumably held some of the poison, and a piece of paper. They handled the phial with another handkerchief, Napoleon being, as ever, well-supplied with them. Illya neither knew nor wanted to know why this was, but acknowledged the usefulness of the habit.

He looked at the paper, which contained a list of chemical symbols and instructions in Russian. “Right, let’s get out of here,” he said, replacing it in the casket. “You’ll have to keep the phial and the casket – I don’t have a pocket.”

oo000oo

“Are you serious?” demanded Napoleon in a whisper. “There are no men guarding this place? That should have made it easy for Thrush, or us for that matter, to take over. Why didn’t we do that instead of risking you as bait?”

“You underestimate women, Napoleon. The female of the species is deadlier than the male – _you_ should know that. The women here are all armed. Believe me, they aren’t like the soft creatures you take on dates. And as far as Thrush is concerned, not even as soft as Angelique.”

“That’s a hair-raising thought.”

They were on the roof now, looking down into the courtyard which was still quiet, and preparing to abseil down to join their colleagues outside.

“If they’re not soft, why did they dress you like that?”

“Like what?” Illya dared him to answer, his eyes threateningly ablaze.

“Like the fulfilment of every girl’s dreams. The harem pants, the bare chest. Very sexy, very tempting – no wonder she wanted to keep you.”

“It’s a form of humiliation – domination, not sex,” he said. “My feet are bare, too, and I’m cold.”

“So was she till she saw you.” Napoleon really didn’t get it.

“Do you feel like flying down?” There was grim threat in the coolly-spoken words.

“Not really. Shall I go first? Wait till the guys see you – it’s a good thing they’re all men.” Napoleon started to let himself down.

“Your innocence is astounding, Napoleon,” came the furious whisper. “You’ve obviously never spent months under the polar icecap in company with _all_ _men_.”

Napoleon looked up at him. “The army wasn’t much better, I can assure you. You survived, I assume?”

“Certainly. I may be undersized but I can fight.”

“And now we know that you can also answer riddles to save your honour. I’ve always been glad you’re my friend and not my enemy.”

“Yes, likewise. So, my friend, I expect you to protect me from all those men.”

Illya followed Napoleon down the rope and to the waiting vehicle, where he was greeted by an outbreak of whistles from the men, who weren’t in the least affected by his icy disdain, and were merely encouraged by Napoleon’s grin.

Looking contemptuously around, Illya was struck by the thought that women were constantly treated like this, however they were dressed. Perhaps there was method in the madness of the women he had just encountered – armed as they were with a range of weaponry and, for his benefit if things had gone wrong, the sharp blade of an axe. It more than redressed the unequal balance of power …

Napoleon watching his thoughtful abstraction now saw him shiver.

“All right, guys. That’s enough. Let’s get going. Someone find clothes for Illya before he catches pneumonia.”

**Author's Note:**

> Anyone who knows Puccini’s blood-thirsty opera will recognise the riddles. The origin of Turandot’s name is from the Persian Turan Dokht, or Turan’s daughter.


End file.
